


Reliever

by leici



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To say Jeff is wound up would be a horrific understatement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reliever

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set on May 18, 2008, in the morning before the Rockies played the Twins at home. Jason Grilli was traded to the Rockies from the Tigers on April 30, 2008.
> 
> Written July 2008.

To say Jeff is wound up would be a horrific understatement.  
  
It kinda sucks a lot, losing so much. Not that he really expects another seventeen win season, but fuck, nothing so far. Five starts and a disgusting ERA hovering just above five. Thank fuck that massive blowout in St. Louis got washed out due to a blessed downpour. Seventeen balls in the first nineteen pitches, five earned runs in three innings, putting his average at just under fucking twenty. The worst game he's ever pitched in his whole life.  
  
There's no way it can get worse than that, but it's not really getting any better, either. Something is going to have to give, eventually. Either he's going to finally get a win, or he's going to get his ass shipped down to C Springs. Either way, he wishes it would happen sooner than fucking later.  
  
He's a little wary of the new reliever, Grilli. There's a lot of bad blood and hurt feelings between him and his old club. Jeff heard the dressing down Jim Leyland gave him via media junket, and the way he used Grilli's full name, over and over like a disappointed parent. He can't imagine Clint ever doing anything like that, but he can understand how it might make him feel, if he ever ended up on the receiving end of that kind of tirade.  
  
So far, though, Grilli seems pleasant enough, especially considering he's coming into the nuclear wasteland that is the Rockies' pitching staff. The only starter getting anything done is Cook, and the bullpen is a fucking disaster area. Even when Jeff does something in a game, the relievers and the closers can't seem to get through the final innings to put together a win. It's depressing, and it's stressing everyone out. The atmosphere around the clubhouse is getting stifling, with tempers running hot and frustration building. Jeff guesses it might be like going from the frying pan into the fire for Grilli, but the guy seems to be handling the transition more gracefully than not.  
  
So when Grilli comes into the room while Jeff is stretching, he takes the time to smile and make eye contact. He might as well try and be cordial with him, if nothing else. They're alone in the clubhouse together, Grilli at his locker re-lacing one of his cleats, Jeff on the floor loosening up his hamstrings. He's about to get up when Grilli seems to be headed out, and the reliever reaches down to give Jeff a hand up. It's all very innocuous, and Jeff doesn't hesitate in accepting, letting Grilli pull him to his feet.  
  
But then Grilli doesn't let go of him right away, squeezing Jeff's left hand in his right, pitching arms connected with Jeff's fingertips pressed against Grilli's palm. Grilli's grip relaxes, but then his hand follows the line of Jeff's arm up, squeezing the muscles just below Jeff's elbow.  
  
"You feel pretty tense," Grilli says, and Jeff has the sudden urge to yank his arm away.  
  
He doesn't. "Yeah, well..." He rolls his shoulders a little defiantly, as if that finishes his statement.  
  
"You're nervous."  
  
It's not a question, and Jeff is a little insulted by the insinuation. "No I'm not."  
  
"Sure you are." Grilli tosses his glove down, and uses both hands to massage the widest part of Jeff's forearm. "Can't say I blame you, really. Getting that first win has to be a lot of pressure."  
  
Jeff frowns. He doesn't like how Grilli is assuming how he feels. "Look, I need to go warm up..."  
  
Grilli doesn't stop rubbing him. In fact, he turns Jeff's hand over and begins digging his thumb into the ropes of tight muscles on the other side of Jeff's arm. "You need to relax."  
  
Jeff opens his mouth to tell Grilli off, but their eyes meet, and whatever he meant to say dies on his tongue. There's something there, in the way Grilli is looking at him, and it makes his stomach churn.  
  
"That's it," Grilli says, his mouth curving in a barely there smile, fingers working their way up to Jeff's left biceps. He tips his head to watch what he's doing, and Jeff is strangely captivated. A moment later, Grilli is massaging the tense muscles in both of Jeff's shoulders, moved so far into Jeff's personal space that Jeff can feel Grilli's breath on his neck.  
  
"I, uhm..." Jeff's voice sounds blunted and nervous, so he clears his throat and starts again. "I really should go out there..."  
  
Grilli meets his gaze again, and hell, when did his eyes get all intense like that? Their faces are really close to each other, and Jeff feels that strange anxiety you get right before you kiss someone for the first time.  
  
"I could help get your mind off pitching today," Grilli says, one of his thumbs grazing the side of Jeff's throat.  
  
"I... You don't need to do that," Jeff manages, feeling way more out of sorts than he ought to in this situation. He really should be shoving this guy off him, but for some reason, he's not moving away at all. And then, suddenly, he feels pressure against his groin. His head snaps down, and he gapes as Grilli's fingers slide up over the curve of his cup, through his pants. It's a strange sensation, the transference of force from the plastic to his genitals, one he wishes he could say is unpleasant. "Stop..." he murmurs, but without any force behind it.  
  
"Let me help you out, Jeff," Grilli is saying, way too close to Jeff's ear. His hand shifts back down, following the shape of the appliance between Jeff's thighs. Jeff has filled up his cup with an erection before, but only ever because of something game related. And it hasn't happened to him in years, so it's a shocking sudden reminder of how uncomfortable it is. Grilli adjusts the angle of his hand so his palm is fitted right over the bulge of the plastic, cradling it. "I  _am_  a reliever," he adds with humor, and Jeff can feel the moistness of Grilli's mouth against his skin.  
  
Jeff can't make himself reply. He just makes a pathetic noise in the back of his throat that sounds disturbingly desperate. Apparently that's enough consent for Grilli, and he walks Jeff carefully into an alcove at the end of a row of lockers. They are certainly not concealed, but they're out of the main eye line from the door now, and Grilli finally moves so he can taste the pale skin of Jeff's throat.  
  
Jeff's head falls back with a dull thud against the wall, and he closes his eyes. He guesses he's going to just let this happen, and so he turns off the part of his brain that should be telling him that this is a really stupid idea. He doesn't have to look down to know that Grilli is opening his belt, and he even feels himself sigh as Grilli gets his pants open and pushes them and his jock shorts down his thighs. Grilli takes up Jeff's cock in his left hand, and Jeff is almost a little embarrassed that he notices how soft Grilli's fingertips are on that hand. Because Jeff doesn't masturbate right handed, and he's very well acquainted with the calluses on his own fingertips from pitching.  
  
"Fuck," he groans, pressing his eyes more tightly shut as he tries to keep sanity at bay.  
  
"Shh," Grilli shushes him, his lips against the rim of Jeff's ear. He inhales like he's going to say something more, but instead he moves to place a kiss on Jeff's cheek that is far too chaste, considering he simultaneously has a handful of Jeff's very hard dick. His strokes are fluid and rhythmic, just any man's should be, if he's spent any time at all pleasuring himself.  
  
Grilli's little, almost imperceptible kisses are working their way across the plane of Jeff's face, lingering just at the edge of his mouth. Jeff can feel the hot puffs of Grill's exhaled breath, his own breathing heavy as Grilli's practiced fingers make short work of his composure. It's pretty obvious what Grilli wants, and it's almost kind of too respectful, the way Grilli is holding off. Jeff's far enough gone that he doesn't care what it means to let Grilli kiss him, so he turns his head enough to align their lips, letting Grilli make the next move.  
  
Grilli doesn't hesitate. As soon as he feels Jeff's mouth under his own, he presses forward, slipping his tongue past Jeff's lips. And maybe this is really what Jeff needs, because he whimpers into Grilli's mouth gratefully, meeting the kiss full on. Their tongues twine, and Jeff's hand finds its way into the wispy hair a the base of Grilli's skull, anchoring as he starts to arch into the hot curl of Grilli's fingers around him. The kiss is not like any he's ever had before, and not only because of the unique sensation of Grilli's beard against his upper lip. There's a strength and domination there that seems to turn Jeff on in a way he's not even remotely used to.  
  
He's going to come. He's not sure how long this has been going on, but he has a feeling it probably hasn't been long enough for him to not seem like some kind of inexperienced kid. It doesn't matter, though, because he can't stop himself. And he doesn't really want to. His fist tightens around Grilli's hair and he's making truncated little moaning sounds in Grilli's mouth that are obviously an indication of what's about to happen. And Grilli is perceptive, because he increases the speed of his hand moving over Jeff's erection, and pulls out of the kiss just in time to let Jeff cry out in orgasm, spending it over Grilli's fingers.  
  
Moments later, he's leaning heavily against the wall behind him, shivering as his body cools and his heartbeat begins to slow down. Grilli's let go of him, and he opens his eyes at the right second to see the other pitcher wiping his hand on the leg of his pants. He has no idea what kind of mess is on the floor between them right now, and he doesn't really want to know. Instead, he reaches down to haul his pants back up, flinching a little as he tucks his overly sensitive cock back into his cup. Grilli reaches over to a nearby locker and grabs a towel, tossing it down over what Jeff assumes is the rest of his load on the berber. Jeff hopes to god the smell of sex isn't as pungent as he thinks it is as he tips his head and feeds the end of his belt through the buckle.  
  
"Feel better?" Grilli asks, and Jeff wants to laugh out loud. Instead, he gives Grilli a look that tells him he's not going to get an answer, and pushes away from the wall. He thinks maybe he should say something, and he pauses to do so, but not a thing comes to his mind, and he continues out of the clubhouse, and onto the field.  
  
A few hours later, he pitches the hell out of the game. He gives up two runs on six hits, but the offense backs him up, and he ends up with his first win of the season. Buchholtz relieves him, and he can't deny that he's not grateful that they don't need Grilli to come into the game. But he also can't ignore the expression he can see on Grilli's face out in the bullpen as he heads to the dugout. It's not gloating, but there's a quality to it that says Jeff owes him one.  
  
Jeff only wishes that prospect excited him a little less.


End file.
